


when my lights burn out, you're the only one left i will answer to

by playthetyrants



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John has a new therapist, M/M, Mary is mentioned a bit, Parentlock, This is post TFP, a lot of fluff actually, basically this is a big fuck you to moftiss, i just fucking love johnlock, season 4 spoilers obviously, theres a rather annoying client, theres some angst at the beginning but it gets better i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 10:09:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9486635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playthetyrants/pseuds/playthetyrants
Summary: John squinted a bit, his mouth falling into a frown as Sherlock sat back up slowly, his hands sliding their way back down his ribcage. John remained still as he did so, his fingertips lingering over the fabric of his baggy shirt, before he finally rested his hands on the sides of John’s thighs.Sherlock seemed to be debating something internally in his mind, pursing his lips together tightly as he refused to break eye contact, and John saw his Adam’s apple move slightly as he swallowed. He suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe.This had been a mistake.John closed his eyes briefly, taking a shaky breath before opening his mouth to speak.“Sherl-”“I love you.”sherlock and john are left to pick up the pieces of their broken lives after returning home from Sherrinford.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone! so, obviously, Sherlock season 4 is over (thank God) and i really wanted to write something to continue where The Final Problem left off. i think it's safe to say that majority of us can see the insane amount of plot holes and loose ends that were given to us, so this is just my take on a scenario that could've happened. 
> 
> major spoilers if you haven't finished season 4, obviously.
> 
> i do not own any of Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes characters, nor am i affiliated with BBC Sherlock in any way (although i truly wish i was.) 
> 
> this fic and title is loosely based off of the song "Lights Burn Out" by Prinze George (an absolutely phenomenal band, please check them out. my favorite lyrics to the song are at the beginning of the fic.)

"honey you're a patient man, living in the moment  
everything i am is not everything you wanted  
but here we are, side by side  
every single morning."

 

 

 

“Is it haunting for you, being back here in London?”

John shifted slightly in his uncomfortable chair, feeling the edge of the wooden armrest dig sharply into his side, blinking stoically at the ground. 

He hated that word, haunting. To be haunted, you had to actually feel something, had to take the time to realize that something was wrong instead of ignoring it all of the time. It didn’t feel like that at all.

He didn’t feel much of anything these days. 

He cleared his throat a bit, reaching up and rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “I’m...honestly, I’m not sure. It just feels a bit, ah...well, a bit void, really.” 

It was true; everything seemed different upon his return from Sherrinford. London was drearier, the lights that scattered the city were dimmer. He found himself walking the streets and wondering if he’d even left the godforsaken prison island, squinting up at the sky to see a sun that wasn’t there. 

He heard his therapist, Rachel, click her pen a couple times, an annoying habit that he wished she didn’t do. He lifted his head up slowly, finally meeting her gaze once more. She was a small woman, probably in her early 30’s with dark brown skin and thin braids that fell past her shoulders. She had kind eyes, the type that made you want to smile despite however you might be feeling. Her voice was a bit deep, but had a comforting warmth to it, maternal in a way. He’d found her immediately upon his return to London, far away from the city and near the countryside in an effort to shake the uneasiness he’d had in finding a new one. He hated to admit it, but he had developed a sort of dependence on therapy after all of these years. All in all, she was very nice; John really just wanted to yank that stupid pen from her hands. 

She pursed her lips slightly and set her pen down on the table in front of them; John felt his face flush in embarrassment and she cracked a grin, shaking her head. 

“I’ve been working on breaking the habit. My apologies, John.” Amazing. John hadn’t even realized he’d glanced down at the pen when she clicked it. He fell silent, watching quietly as Rachel set her journal down, closing it carefully before crossing her legs, the fabric of her baby blue skirt pulling tightly across her thighs as she sat up. Her nails were perfectly manicured, although her ruffled floral shirt seemed a bit too big for her small frame. She’d been tugging on it all afternoon, the sleeves always wanting to fall off her shoulders, but she had suddenly gained an air of seriousness. Her hands rested delicately against her thighs, and John caught glimpse of a wedding band on her finger. 

His stomach lurched sickeningly; he immediately slid his right hand over his left, the metal feeling like it was suddenly burning the skin right off of him. 

Rachel chewed on her lip carefully for a moment, as if taking the time to choose her words before she spoke again. 

“Can you tell me what’s so...void about it?” John stared at her for a moment, squinting his eyes slightly at her calm face. It was a vague question.

He inhaled deeply, leaning back against the chair carefully before staring fixedly at nothing in particular to his side, his index finger tapping rather manically against his leg. 

“I don’t...I don’t see anything anymore.” He shrugged once, not turning his head back to face her before continuing on. “I don’t see beauty in flowers or trees on the sidewalks and in parks. I don’t see the colors in the streets and the shops that I used to admire. Everything is...grey now. Everything I see takes me back to that damn island…” He reached up and rubbed at his eyes wearily, shaking his head slowly. 

“It’s like I’m still in the prison cell rooms, like I’m back in the well and there’s no light, and I can’t see…” His voice faltered, and he dropped his hand from his eyes, staring pointedly at the dark wooden floor beneath his feet. 

“I guess you’re right. It’s haunted for me.” 

Another pen click. John tried his best not to flinch, swallowing down a sigh before he sat back straight and looked up, Rachel writing something else in her notebook. John waited patiently, watching as she looked back up, her dark brown eyes meeting his. 

“It seems like everything is haunted for you.” John fought back the urge to roll his eyes, sighing softly as he tapped his lip with his finger carefully. 

“Yeah, pretty much,” he replied shortly, looking absentmindedly at a painting on the wall directly behind her, wondering idly how much time was left in their session. 

Rachel tapped her pen delicately against the paper, staying quiet for a moment before speaking again. 

“Are the people haunted?” 

John was confused for a moment. “People” was a vague term. The people on the streets? The people that he spoke to? The people he worked with at the clinic? The people he lived w-

He blanched for a moment, his entire body stiffening up. Rachel merely watched him, still fidgeting with her pen in her hands. John flickered his eyes back up to meet hers again quickly, before giving a slow shake of his head. 

“No,” he replied, his voice sounding rather hoarse and he cleared his throat. “No, he’s…” He sighed a bit shakily, closing his eyes and suddenly feeling very tired. 

“Sherlock’s not haunted, no.” It was his turn to fidget now, messing with a loose string on his pants. 

“He’s void.” Completely, utterly void. 

Rachel seemed to be biting her tongue, a pained look on her face as if she were withholding the words she wanted to say. John suddenly felt very uncomfortable being there, the air becoming stifling and the walls seeming to inch their way closer and closer towards him. He slid his now sweaty palm down the top of his thigh before sitting up quickly, clearing his throat. 

“Is our time nearly up? My daughter, I need to get her…” Rachel clicked her pen once more, sighing softly before she glanced down at her watch. 

“There’s 20 minutes left…” she replied, and John swallowed thickly, tapping his fingers against the wooden armrest. He wasn’t one to abandon therapy appointments, especially not the first one, but really he wanted nothing more than to escape the room that was now starting to remind him of the prison cells back in Sherrinford. 

“Please, let’s just…” He cleared his throat again, blinking down at the ground rather pitifully. 

“I don’t...I can’t talk about Sherlock. Not right now.” 

Rachel nodded quickly and changed the subject, but the sick feeling in his stomach never went away.

That evening, John picked up Rosie from Molly’s flat and ventured back into the city, towards his and Mary’s house. He hated it now; it gave him a vile feeling in the pit of his stomach that never went away unless he was leaving it once more. 

With Rosie on his hip, he unlocked the door and walked inside, immediately being met with the loud sound of Sherlock’s violin down the hall. He sighed softly, shutting the locking the door behind him as Rosie stared longingly towards the source of the noise, intrigued. 

Sherlock hadn’t come out of his room once in the week since they’d been back; well, at least not when John was home. John had wasted no time in throwing himself back into his work, anything to distract him from the blinking red lights he saw every time he shut his eyes, and Moriarty’s loud voice screaming in his ear when he laid in bed at night. Sherlock seemed to have done the opposite. 

John put Rosie to bed half an hour later, stroking her cheek gently as she wriggled around in her crib, Sherlock’s music still faintly heard through the walls. “I’m sorry, my love…” he murmured, touching a lock of her hair gently. “Hopefully it stops soon…” 

Hopefully he’s okay soon. 

Rosie didn’t seemed bothered; her eyes were drooping shut before her father could finish speaking, and John quickly turned on her baby monitor before leaving and shutting the door carefully behind him. 

John wandered into the kitchen, running his fingertips along the cold granite countertops before reaching the fridge. He wasn’t hungry, but since he’d neglected to eat anything today he figured he should try to eat something.

He had scanned the contents of the fridge for a couple seconds before Sherlock’s music suddenly stopped. He looked over his shoulder, frowning slightly, and heard the slow creak of the guest bedroom door open. Sherlock’s heavy footsteps padded down the hall, and then suddenly he was in the kitchen doorway, staring at John rather blankly. 

Sherlock was a mess, to say the least. His hair was a tangled mess of curls on top of his head, his jaw and chin littered with dark stubble. He was wearing his dark blue bathrobe, his pale arms crossed over his chest. He looked strangely out of place, being dressed like that and not at Baker Street. John felt a pang of uneasiness in his stomach at the thought of their old flat, now in charred ruins. He was scared at how similar he looked to how he did a few weeks earlier, full of drugs and God knows what else, just a couple steps away from death. 

Sherlock eyed him carefully, as if seeming to contemplate talking, then looked away and made a beeline for a bottle of water sitting on the counter. Well, at least he was making some sort of an effort. 

John closed the fridge slowly, his hand trailing on the handle for a few seconds before he turned to face Sherlock, giving him a moment to unscrew the cap and take a sip. 

“Have you eaten today? Or...in the last couple of days?” Sherlock finished swallowing, carefully screwing the lid back on before furrowing his brow slightly, like he always did before he lied to John. 

“Yes,” he replied, his voice weak. John fell silent, staring down at the tile floor beneath them. He couldn’t very well argue with him and try to force him; John hadn’t eaten either, anyway. 

He nodded once, not even sure if Sherlock saw it before clearing his throat, walking around the kitchen island. 

“I’m going to bed...no work tomorrow, so um...Rosie and I will be hanging out together, if you want to…” His voice faded; Sherlock was staring painfully at the floor, his lips pressed together tightly as John spoke. He looked up when he stopped and quickly snapped out of it, his face taking on a normal persona again as he nodded once. 

“Okay…” he replied slowly, looking a bit conflicted. “I haven’t...haven’t been sleeping well, so…” He shrugged a bit, messing with his bottle in his large hands. “I might just try and sleep tomorrow…” 

John’s chest ached unbearably, but he nodded nevertheless. “Completely understand.” He tried his best to give him a small smile but it probably came out as a grimace. Sherlock avoided his eyes again, saying nothing more as John turned the corner and walked down the hall to his bedroom. 

John shut the door and immediately buried his face in his hands, inhaling sharply. It absolutely pained him to think that Sherlock was suffering from the same types of nightmares he was having, and his stomach sank when he realized they were probably worse. His back hit the wooden door with a soft thud, sinking down to sit on the soft carpeting before burying his face in his knees. He focused on steadying his breathing, which had sped up dramatically, much to his dismay. After a few minutes, he heard the all too familiar footsteps of his best friend’s feet make their way down the hall, opening the door across from his and shutting it behind him. 

John felt sick; he hated everything about this. 

An hour later found himself lying in his large king sized bed, staring blankly at the ceiling above him. He still hadn’t quite gotten used to sleeping alone; it was weird sleeping in the middle of the mattress. Every time he tried, he found himself scooting to the left of the bed once more. 

Rosie was silent on the other end of the monitor; she’d been sleeping soundly through the night but had also begun teething, and the pain woke her up sometimes. As much as he hated himself for it, John found himself wishing she’d cry just so he’d have a reason to get up and not sleep. 

He didn’t even try to close his eyes anymore. Every time he did, he was back in the well, struggling to breathe and clawing at the walls around him, begging and pleading to get out as the water enveloped his entire body. 

It wasn’t until around 2 a.m. that he heard him. 

At first he thought he was imagining it. It sounded as if someone was struggling against something; frantic, panicked noises and gasps. It was very dim, and John found himself sitting up slowly, frowning. If he was hearing things while he was awake now, he was gonna need much more than therapy. 

The noises got louder, and he was able to hear words. “No...stop...please...John…”

John. 

He was out of bed in a split second; he ran towards his door and had his hand on the knob before a horrible, guttural scream echoed amongst the house, shaking him to the very core and sending goosebumps throughout his entire body. 

He yanked the door open with his trembling hand and nearly leapt across the hallway to Sherlock’s door, pushing it open and stumbling inside. 

“Sherlock?!” John blinked in the darkness, struggling to make out where exactly he was as his eyes adjusted to the room. He reached behind him and tapped on the wall until he found the light switch, flicking it on quickly before his stomach sank like an iron weight to his feet. 

Sherlock was sitting straight up in bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly like he’d just run a marathon. His pale hands were trembling horribly at his sides, his eyes squeezed shut as he struggled to catch his breath. He didn’t seem to notice John was in the room at all, instead gripping the cream colored comforter beneath him, clutching onto it for what seemed like dear life. 

John swallowed uneasily, pushing the door slightly behind him but not fully shutting it. John took a step forward, Sherlock still not reacting, before he decided to walk all the way over to the bed. He bit his lip carefully, suddenly wanting nothing more than to touch him but deciding against it. It was never a good idea to make physical contact when someone was this distraught...especially Sherlock. 

John took a deep breath, grimacing at the whiteness of his friend’s knuckles as they refused to let go of their grip on the bedding before opening his mouth. 

“It’s alright...you’re awake, you’re in London, nothing’s wrong…” That was lame and John knew it, but really what else was be supposed to say? Everything felt wrong and bad and he had no idea how he was going to deal with any of it, but none of that mattered right now. 

All he was focused on was Sherlock. 

John watched as Sherlock’s eyes flew open suddenly, as if just realizing he was awake. Sherlock blinked slowly, his light blue eyes flickering across the room and taking it in like it was the first time he’d seen it. Sherlock’s hands slowly loosened their death grips on the blankets, his rigid body loosening as his shoulders slumped down suddenly. 

It happened rather fast; one moment he was fine, his breathing finally steady, and the next Sherlock was crying. 

It was real crying too; the kind that took over your entire body like some sort of monster. It wracked your bones and struggled to come up your throat and out of your mouth, dying to be seen and heard. John was taken aback as he watched the consulting detective seem to collapse into himself, pulling his knees up and burying his face into his hands, struggling to breathe. 

John was frozen in place, unable to move as Sherlock sobbed, gasping for air every few seconds as it got worse. He suddenly moaned as if he were in awful pain, like he was dying and John snapped back to his senses, shaking his head quickly before he climbed onto the bed.

“Sherlock, just breathe…” he murmured, sliding his hands onto his shoulders and urging him to sit up. He let out another choked sob, refusing to budge and John sighed softly, running his hands down his arms gently before they got to his hands. 

“Please…” He began to gently pry away his tear soaked fingers from his face, carefully pulling them off before slipping his palms against his, running his fingertips softly against the skin of his wrist. 

Sherlock’s body was still shaking with every breath he took, but at least the cries had stopped. His head was still tilted down, bobbing heavily as he took John’s advice and just breathed for a few moments. John was patient, keeping a firm grip on his hands and felt his pulse begin to slow down. 

Slowly, Sherlock pushed his legs back down so they were flat against the mattress once more, still refusing to look up. He sniffled a bit, staring fixedly at their hands resting in his lap. John bit his bottom lip harshly, not really knowing what to say. 

He knew what it was like to wake up from a nightmare like that; his your entire body on edge with nerves and his your senses almost heightened, and his your bones ache and there’s a permanent chill to his your body, like you’re never going to stop shaking again. Anything he said to Sherlock would be lost in all of that. 

So all he could do was run his thumbs along the skin of his wrist, hoping his attempt at being soothing was helpful. They sat in silence for a couple moments, and then suddenly Sherlock tilted his head back up to face him. 

His blue eyes were full of tears threatening to spill over onto his white cheeks, and John felt his chest ache once more. He’d seen Sherlock upset a handful of times, but never this extreme. Everything about him seemed to be in pain; his were lips pressed together tightly, the dark circles beneath his eyes giving him a horrible gaunt look. 

His eyes were the worst; John felt like he was back in the well just by looking at them.

He didn’t say a word, instead watching as Sherlock opened his mouth and whispered brokenly. 

“I don’t want to go back there.” 

John’s arms were around Sherlock before he had a chance to react; he felt Sherlock wrap his large arms around John’s waist and his face bury itself into his shoulder, his soft crying starting back up once more. 

“You will never go back there, I swear to God, Sherlock…” He rubbed his back probably a bit too harshly, but he was on edge again. He wanted to reassure his best friend that he would never have to relive that nightmare, never have to step foot on that hellhole island again. 

Sherlock whimpered in response, and John ran his fingers through his thick curls, resting his cheek against the side of his head gently. “It’s going to be alright, I promise you.” 

It was weird, seeing Sherlock like this. John listened silently as Sherlock continued sniffling into the fabric of his shirt, any space between the two of them gone in the other’s embrace. He was clinging to John as if he were a lifesaver, seconds away from drowning and John wasn’t sure how to deal with it. 

They had seen a lot of shit together, most of it pretty fucking bad. He figured that, at least at some point, Sherlock had to have suffered some sort of breakdown. The entire world seemed like it was set out to get him, sometimes. 

He supposed that time had finally come.

John gently slid his hand from Sherlock’s dark curls and down his neck, beginning to rub up and down his back gently. His stomach lurched as his fingertips made contact with his bony spine, not wanting to think about how much weight he’d lost in the last week alone. He swallowed thickly, taking a deep breath before turning his head slightly, mumbling into Sherlock’s hair. 

“Are you okay?” Sherlock’s breathing had finally evened out and he’d stopped sniffling. John moved reluctantly as he began to untangle himself from John’s grip, letting go of his waist and sitting up slowly, swaying slightly. 

His eyes were red and puffy, his face looking even more sunken in and gaunt than it had just a few hours before in the kitchen. He still had a miserable look on his face, his mouth turned down in a slight frown as he reached up and wiped his face slowly, his fingers lingering against the sallow skin for a moment before dropping his hands once more. 

“I’m fine now…” he managed out, his voice sounding strangely hollow. John eyed him uneasily, his own hands falling into his lap as the two of them fell silent once more.  
The ring on his hand felt like it was burning him again. 

Sherlock’s eyes scanned his face for a brief second before he looked down at the bedspread beneath them, suddenly looking very exhausted. John blinked, clearing his throat quickly before pushing himself off of the bed, his feet hitting the cold hardwood floor gently. 

“Right, well...I’ll just, leave you be, then…” What the fuck was he even saying? John’s entire body was screaming at him to stay, yet he found himself walking towards the door. Why on Earth would he leave someone alone after an episode like that, let alone Sherlock, of all people? 

He knew he shouldn’t have done it but he turned his head anyway, meeting the consulting detective’s eyes once more. He looked a bit defeated, his shoulders sagging slightly as he sat amongst the fluffy comforter and pillows, looking very much like a child in that moment. He gave a small nod, blinking slowly.

“Go back to sleep, John.” 

And, normally, that’s exactly what he would’ve done. 

But not tonight.

Not anymore. 

John turned his head back towards the doorway, staring across the hall at his opened bedroom door, back to his empty, unmade bed. This wasn’t right; nothing was right. Something had to change. 

He heard Sherlock shift slightly in his bed behind him as he tapped his fingers against the side of his leg nervously. He was suddenly aware of his heart pounding against his chest like a fucking drum, his ribcage beginning to ache from it all. He swallowed once more, his palms slick with sweat as he clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides.

Why did he ever wait this long? 

The bed stopped moving; a long pause, then a single word murmured into the silent room. 

“John?”

Fuck it. 

It happened quickly; John turned on his heel and nearly ran back towards the bed. Sherlock barely had time to react before John was on the mattress once more, his knees hitting the blankets for a split second before his hands were on the side of the detective’s face, cupping his cheeks with slightly sweaty palms as the space between them was closed once more.

He pulled Sherlock’s face down quickly, immediately pressing his lips to his as his eyes fluttered shut. 

And...dear God, kissing him was like being reborn again. Fresh and new and...real. 

Sherlock’s mouth seemed to be made for his; it molded against John’s perfectly as his hands immediately grabbed onto his waist, pulling him effortlessly into his lap. John followed his lead quickly, his legs sliding their way to either side of Sherlock’s hips and wrapping themselves around his lower back. He deepened the kiss even further, his arms snaking their way around his neck so that Sherlock was arching over him, clutching his side and back. 

It was slow and steady and calming; everything a first kiss should be. 

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, tilting his head slightly as he slid his tongue in between John’s lips and into his mouth and really, John should’ve been surprised but he wasn’t.  
Nothing about this was surprising; it was just very, very late. 

This was ebbing within John’s mind like a lighthouse beacon, reminding him over and over again as he kissed Sherlock that this should’ve happened years ago. They wouldn’t be sitting here together, curled up in the darkness in an unfamiliar house. John wouldn’t have this sickening feeling of remorse residing in his stomach like a pound of lead and a wedding band that suddenly felt very heavy on his finger. 

Sherlock wouldn’t be pulling out of the kiss, staring at him with shiny blue eyes and a look of uneasiness and pain on his face. 

John squinted a bit, his mouth falling into a frown as Sherlock sat back up slowly, his hands sliding their way back down John’s ribcage. John remained still as he did so, his fingertips lingering over the fabric of his baggy shirt, before he finally rested his hands on the sides of John’s thighs. 

Sherlock seemed to be debating something internally in his mind, pursing his lips together tightly as he refused to break eye contact, and John saw his Adam’s apple move slightly as he swallowed. He suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe.

This had been a mistake. 

John closed his eyes briefly, taking a shaky breath before opening his mouth to speak.

“Sherl-”

“I love you.” 

A beat. John definitely couldn’t breathe. 

He opened his eyes quickly; Sherlock was tearing up again. 

Another beat. “You what?” 

There was nothing else in that room; just the two of them. They were floating. 

Sherlock blinked once; the tears began to fall. 

“I said I love you.” 

Beat. John could hear alarms going off in his brain, sharp and loud. Sherlock’s hands were still on his thighs and he began to talk again. 

“I love you so much, John Watson.” The alarms got louder. “I love you and I’ve loved you since I first saw you and I never said anything. I don’t shut my fucking mouth for anything or anyone and for some reason, when it came to you, I just forgot how to speak.” More tears. John could barely hear him over the white noise in his ears.

Sherlock closed his eyes pitifully, tears sliding and dripping their way off of his nose and cheeks as he tilted his head down, breaking eye contact. 

Pause. The noise stopped. 

John sat himself back up carefully, his arms snaking their way around Sherlock’s neck once more before he rested his cheek on the side of his face, his lips ghosting over the detective’s ear. 

“God, Sherlock...I love you too.” 

There really isn’t words to describe what John felt in that moment. It was more than relief, more than love and admiration and joy. All he could feel was Sherlock’s body against his, long arms wrapped around his back and his wet nose against his neck. The pressure in his chest was gone; John took a deep breath and just inhaled Sherlock’s scent. If he thinks about it today, he can still smell him. 

The rest of the night was a blur; tangled sheets and more kisses, bruises on necks and thighs and scratches on shoulder blades and backs. He can still feel Sherlock’s soft curls in between his fingers, can see his eyelids flutter shut and eyelashes cast shadows along his pale face in the moonlight. John recalls the way his chest rose up and down as he inhaled sharp and shaky breaths, his lips pink and shiny and slightly swollen as he opened his mouth to moan, to whimper, to whisper. 

It had been well worth the wait. There was nothing else like it. 

John swears up and down to this day that he’d never slept as well as he did that night, wrapped in soft white sheets and with Sherlock’s arms around his waist, his head resting in the middle of his chest. His breaths were slow and even against his bare skin, and his dark curls tickled the bottom of his chin. John found himself stroking them gently, struggling to keep his eyes open as he waited until Sherlock fell asleep, making sure he was okay. 

When his breathing evened out, John immediately closed his eyes and rested his cheek on top of his hair, and sleep took him instantly. 

He’d never felt this amount of peace in his life. 

Within the month, Baker Street was completely renovated. The things that had survived the explosion were still there when they returned, and John felt hopeful for the first time in a long time. As the days passed things were finally starting to feel okay again, like the pieces were falling back into place and now every time he saw Sherlock, it was like the first time all over again. 

The simple things he did were now fascinating to John; the way he put his coat on, and the way he scrolled through his phone with his index finger instead of this thumb sometimes. John was also embarrassed at the way his mind wandered now; Sherlock had an uncanny habit of spreading his legs when he sat in his chair at times and of course, had no idea he even did it. John had to turn away on many occasions while they were working on the flat, praying to God that Mrs. Hudson just would leave them be for a little bit. 

Sherlock hadn’t gone back to work yet, but John didn’t mind. He had the clinic to busy him for the time being, and Sherlock was still recovering. He liked spending his days with Rosie when it was his turn to babysit (as far as John was aware), and besides that he’d just been reading and playing the violin. 

John knew he was ready when the experiments in the kitchen began again, and suddenly their fridge was full of body parts from the morgue once more. 

About three weeks into the renovation, John was repainting the yellow smiley face on the living room wall when Sherlock nonchalantly brought it up. 

“You and Rosie should just live with me.” John blinked, slowly bringing his paint can back down before he swung around to face him, raising his eyebrows. 

“I...I have a house, though…” he replied rather stupidly and Sherlock shrugged, not even paying attention to him but rather to his gun, loading individual bullets into it. 

“It’s just another bill to pay. Besides, Baker Street is better, and you know it.” To be honest, John was a bit offended that Sherlock seemed to think he had no emotional attachment to the house he and Mary had bought together. It was where Rosie had grown up thus far, after all. Then again...Sherlock had very few emotional attachments to anything.

John watched him silently as he messed with the gun, tapping his index finger against the side of his thigh rapidly. He had a point. 221B had been his first home here in London.  
Sherlock finished and looked up at John, furrowing his brow in surprise to see him still standing there like an idiot. John sighed heavily, scanning his face for a moment before shrugging. 

“I’ll think about it,” he replied, and Sherlock smiled brightly, obviously happy with his response before holding his hand up and shooing him out of the way. John bit back a grin as he fired three shots into the newly painted smiley face, shoving his hands into his pockets as he watched. 

(Sherlock brought it up again that same night in bed. John really couldn’t say no to him there.)

Still, when the day finally came he found himself nervous. John figured that this was going to be a transitional stage; after all, HE was still transitioning living with his daughter and she was nearly 8 months old now. There were things to get used to; tripping over toys, feeding her every few hours, bath time and diapers and everything else in between. 

Basically, it was an acceptance that his life was no longer just his own, and his house wasn’t either. Everything that belonged to him, belonged to Rosie. 

He wasn’t sure if Sherlock could handle that.

John glanced up at him from his seat in his chair, watching Sherlock shuffle through a large pile of papers on his table, tossing majority of them over his shoulder and into a large pile of trash behind him. The flat still smelled a bit like smoke,much to his dismay. John wrinkled his nose a bit at the smell of freshly dried paint, still drying from a couple days ago before clearing his throat rather loudly. 

“Sherlock…” He got a muffled grunt in response, more pieces of paper flying over his shoulder. John sighed a bit, going back to his box of books on the floor between his feet. He grabbed the remaining few and crossed the room to the bookshelf, stacking them up in the leftover space, his fingers leaning heavily over the spines for a moment before he dropped his hands, turning abruptly.

“Sherlock, I don’t think you’ve thought this through.” This time he got a hum in response, Sherlock finally taking his leftover papers and shoving them into his desk before turning around, gathering the huge pile of trash with his long arms and awkwardly shoving it into a bag, still not paying much attention. 

“I haven’t thought what through?” he asked loudly, over the rustling of plastic. John blinked in slight annoyance at the ceiling for a moment, before walking over and taking the bag from him, tying it shut. 

“Rosie and I moving in. It’s a lot different with a baby, she demolishes everything in her path, demands attention constantly, takes over anything and everything she wants…” His voice trailed off and he blinked slowly for a moment, meeting Sherlock’s slightly confused gaze. “Oh my God, she’s a mini you.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed the bag from him, crossing to the window and pushing it open, glancing below briefly before tossing it out. John winced as he heard it land on the concrete below, amongst the other piles of trash, and heard Mrs. Hudson shriek downstairs from the noise. 

“Really? You can’t walk downstairs and put it out like everyone else?” Sherlock shrugged, pulling the window shut again before crossing to the kitchen. 

“Waste of time, John,” he replied, waving his hand absentmindedly as he hoisted himself up to sit on the counter beside the stove, his long legs dangling above the floor, the toes of his shoes scuffing the tile floor. “Will you put on some tea? Rosie and Molly will be here soon.” 

John narrowed his eyes a bit, Sherlock’s face remaining nonchalant until he started moving, smiling happily as he listened. “Thank you.” 

John ignored him for a moment, getting everything together and putting the kettle on to boil before turning to face him directly once more, crossing his arms.

“I’m being serious, Sherlock,” he warned, and Sherlock groaned dramatically at him in response, throwing his head back and nearly colliding with the cabinet behind him. 

“And so am I, John!” He moved his head back down and made eye contact with him. “I knew what I was getting into when I asked you to move in. It’s really not as big of a deal as you’re making it out to be.” John opened his mouth to speak and Sherlock merely raised a hand up to quiet him. “Molly will be up in 3,2…” 

They heard a gentle knock on their door just then, and John had the sudden urge to strangle the consulting detective’s neck. 

Sherlock smiled and slid off the counter, waving him out. “Go see your daughter, I’ll finish this.” John huffed loudly at him in an attempt to show him he was being a smart ass once again, but Sherlock merely ignored him and turned to the now boiling kettle as John walked out, making a beeline for the door and opening it. 

Molly was standing there, looking a bit worn out as she always did but wearing a soft smile, Rosie sitting on her left hip with her pink diaper bag slung over her shoulder. 

“Hi John, sorry I’m a little early, I’ve got a long day tomorrow at work…” Rosie had ahold of Molly’s cream colored scarf, stuffing it in her mouth to chew on absentmindedly as John shook his head quickly, letting her in and shutting the door. 

“Don’t be sorry, I understand. If you need to bring her home early, just do it, okay?” Molly smiled a bit wider and nodded, looking down and quickly pulling the fabric from the baby’s mouth. 

“What did I say earlier, little one?” John grinned and took the bag from her, setting it in his own chair as Sherlock came out of the kitchen, somehow balancing the tray of cups in one hand and holding the kettle in the other before setting it down on the coffee table. 

“Molly, stay for a bit? I made tea, and I’m pretty sure it’s awful, but you can pretend to like it for a bit, hm?” Molly grinned at that, scrunching her nose up a bit fondly as she turned to face him. 

“I’m sure it’s fine, and yeah, I can stay for a few minutes…” She turned to look down at Rosie and pulled her slobbery hand from her mouth. “Ready to see Daddy?” 

John smiled happily and reached his arms out as Molly lifted her up from her hip gently. Rosie turned to face her father for a moment before crying out in protest, kicking her little legs and shying away from him. 

John frowned a bit, furrowing his brow as Molly looked down confusedly at her, tilting her head to the side. “Rosie, it’s Daddy! What’s the matter?” Rosie merely ignored her, instead turning and craning her neck behind her, looking pointedly at Sherlock. 

Sherlock merely blinked at her for a moment, watching as she immediately reached her arms out to him, wiggling her feet happily and smiling. 

John’s mouth fell open in disbelief and Molly opened and closed her mouth a few times, as if wanting to say something but not knowing what. Sherlock’s pale face had turned a shade pink, and Rosie began cooing loudly as slowly walked over, reaching out and taking her gently. 

It wasn’t like they didn’t see each other a lot; Sherlock adored her and helped out as much as Molly did, probably even more. He sat her down gently on his hip and Rosie grinned happily up at him, playing with one of his shirt buttons contentedly as he looked sheepishly up at John, making eye contact. 

“I uh...I’m sorry…” John blinked again, still trying to process what he had just seen, but shook his head quickly, a small smile appearing on his lips. 

“No no, don’t be…” His voice faded away as he watched Rosie settle against Sherlock’s side, one tiny hand latching itself onto the front of his shirt and the other going into her mouth as she gazed around the room over his shoulder, apparently bored of this entire situation. 

Molly was stifling a grin, pursing her lips together before making a beeline for the tea on the table, grabbing a cup and taking a sip. John watched her face turn sour as she finished swallowing, looking pointedly at Sherlock. “You’re right, this isn’t good.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I told you to pretend. I forgot the sugar anyway, hang on…” He turned around swiftly, placing a large hand behind Rosie’s back before walking back into the kitchen. Once he disappeared through the doorway, Molly set her cup down immediately and turned to John, her eyebrows raised. 

“I didn’t know they were that close?” She sounded more amazed than anything, and she had a right to be. It was a strange sight, seeing Sherlock Holmes toting a baby around on his hip in 221B like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

John shrugged a bit, watching their silhouettes against the light in the kitchen as Sherlock rummaged around in a cabinet, feeling strangely warm inside. “I know we just got things back to normal again, but he’s loved that little girl since the day she was born and she obviously loves him back too.” He grinned to himself as Molly smiled a bit, shrugging. 

“Well, that’s good. She’s got the best two men in the world watching over her.” Sherlock came back in with an entire bag of sugar, dropping it with a loud thud onto the table. 

“All of our sugar bowls have eyeballs in them at the moment.” Rosie was holding a large metal spoon in her hands, gazing at herself in the reflection in slight confusion as Sherlock sat down in his chair, reaching his hand out. 

“Can I have that? We need it for tea.” She stared at him blankly for a moment, then suddenly jerked it away as he tried to grab it from her, Molly giggling loudly.  
John watched in amusement from his chair as Sherlock fought with his daughter for the utensil, Molly snorting into her tea every time he failed. She finally surrendered it after a few minutes, setting it on the tray as Rosie yawned. She was sitting in Sherlock’s lap now, her head resting against his chest as she lounged on him lazily, one of his large hands wrapped around her front to keep her from falling. 

Molly left a few minutes later, after checking the time and remembering her plans for an early night in. John thanked her and showed her out, walking her downstairs and outside to her cab before coming back up. Sherlock was up from his chair now, Rosie back on his hip as he took her black shoes and socks off carefully, setting them down on the table.  
It was oddly fascinating, watching Sherlock interact with his daughter. He was so gentle with her, his large hands and bony fingers taking the time to pull her headband off her head without yanking her hair, and smoothing it back down once he finished

Sherlock had never been careful with anything in his entire life, let alone another human being. 

John closed the door quietly behind him, Sherlock still oblivious and pulling his phone from his pocket, checking the time. 

“Ah, Rosie must be hungry, hm? Let’s go eat before you get a bath and go to bed.” John was floored. Sherlock’s voice had taken a tone he hadn’t quite heard before, but maybe he’d just never noticed. Every time Sherlock had been around Rosie by himself, he and Mary had been either asleep or gone so he’d never really seen them interact. She had been so exhausting just a few months ago, and still was, of course, but now that John was living in Baker Street once more he was finally beginning to see Sherlock’s attitude towards his daughter. 

It was absolutely mesmerizing. 

If Sherlock had noticed John watching (which he was sure he had) he simply elected to ignore him and walk into the kitchen, Rosie still clinging to his shirt as if her life depended on it. John rested his back against the front door for a moment, listening to his flatmate shuffle around their kitchen, still murmuring to Rosie as he did. His voice was muffled and John couldn’t quite make out the words, but it still had that soothing, soft tone to it. The pleasant warm feeling that had overtaken him earlier was still there, his stomach doing a flip every time he saw their two silhouettes pass against the clear kitchen door.

And, really, he thinks that’s the first time he thought of the three of them them as an actual family. 

He broke from his reverie when Sherlock suddenly walked through the kitchen door, Rosie curled up against one of his arms holding a small pink spoon and Sherlock a jar of baby food. 

“She likes to eat in my bed, what a diva,” he mused, and John smiled, his heart swelling. 

“I’d expect nothing less when she’s around you.” Sherlock pretended to look offended before walking past him and down the hallway towards his room in the back. 

“Like father like daughter, isn’t that a saying?” he called out behind him and John smirked, following him. 

“Not exactly…” He stood in the doorway quietly, watching his boyfriend (it still felt odd to think), settle himself on the bed. He sat with his back directly against the headboard before pulling his long legs up and bending them at the knees. He set the food down on his pillow and moved Rosie to sit in his lap, right up against his thighs. She seemed to do this often, because she settled down against him perfectly, watching eagerly as Sherlock twisted the lid off. 

“This is absolutely disgusting; peas and apples? It looks like vomit.” Rosie swayed slightly, obviously very excited to eat and Sherlock grinned at her, taking the spoon from her little hand and scooping some of the mush up, bringing it to her mouth. 

John was absolutely stunned. 

He walked over after she’d eaten a few bites, Sherlock paying him no mind as he crawled into bed beside him, their shoulders brushing up against each other. 

“I don’t understand. She sits in her chair and laughs in my face when I try to feed her.” Sherlock smirked, wiping up some of the food off her chin with the spoon before turning his head.  
“The bed works every time, I promise you.” Rosie clapped her hands loudly in Sherlock’s direction, demanding his attention once more before he sighed dramatically and fed her another spoonful. John rolled his leg back and forth on the bed slowly, his calf hitting against Sherlock’s ankle gently as he watched her eat, leaning further into Sherlock’s side. 

“I didn’t know you two were this close,” he stated a few moments later, Sherlock squinting a bit as he scraped the last of the food from the jar. 

“Isn’t that a normal thing? Babies are much more prone to develop relationships at a young age because they don’t think about it, they just...do.” Rosie blinked up at the two of them with big brown eyes, licking her lips messily. John smiled, turning his head to face Sherlock. 

“Of course it’s a normal thing, it just…” He shrugged a bit. “Usually happens to parents. But she’s taken a liking to you way faster than she ever did for me.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed a light pink color for the second time that day and John’s heart fluttered, fighting back a grin as Sherlock pursed his lips slightly, reaching out and wiping Rosie’s face with the bottom of her now disastrous looking shirt.

“We just click. She likes listening to me play violin.” John snorted, shaking his head before he scooped Rosie up in his arms, sliding out of bed. 

“That may be so, but I think it’s just because she loves you.” Sherlock’s face turned a darker shade of pink and John was smirking now, balancing Rosie on his hip as he watched his boyfriend fidget with the spoon and empty jar in his hands. 

“Babies love everyone,” he retorted, leaning back against the headboard once more as he extended his legs flat against the comforter. John rolled his eyes. 

“I bet she’d hate Mycroft.” Sherlock cracked a grin at that, looking up at him and meeting John’s eyes. 

“If she likes me, she’d despise him.” 

A few minutes later John was on the floor of the bathroom, sitting next to the tub while Rosie sat in her plastic chair, splashing around in the water and bubbles happily and completely ignoring her dad, as usual. John smiled and rested his chin on the porcelain edging, watching her contentedly for a few minutes before he heard the door open behind him. 

He smiled to himself, listening as Sherlock walked in and sat down beside John, his knee brushing up against his own as the two of them watched Rosie peacefully. 

“First night of living together again and you can’t seem to leave me alone for more than 5 minutes,” John teased, and Sherlock hummed in response, resting his hands in his lap. 

“It’s our first night together as a family, actually. I only get to live it out once.” HIs voice was calm and nonchalant, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to say, but John felt as if his heart had suddenly swelled 5 times its normal size. He bit his lip, still watching Rosie fixedly as he cleared his throat, nodding in agreement. 

“You’re right…” he murmured, and he saw Sherlock turn his head to face him, out of the corner of his eye. 

“Oh, John. Don’t get sappy on me, I have no time for it,” He sounded genuinely cross and it made John laugh, sitting up on the floor before turning to him. 

“You say sappy things and you don’t even realize it sometimes! What am I supposed to do?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, resting his elbow on the side of the tub. 

“I really don’t do that, but believe what you will.” He waved a hand towards John’s face in slight annoyance and John grinned, tilting his head to the side. 

“I can already see the blog post; Sherlock Holmes, A Sap in a Hat.” Sherlock groaned loudly and dramatically, throwing his head back and getting a fit of giggles from Rosie, clapping her hands together at the consulting detective’s acting skills. 

“John, I will kill you in your sleep, I swear it.” John grinned, watching his boyfriend’s annoyed and pouty face for a moment, wondering what he’d ever done in his life to deserve someone as special as him. 

Rosie watched nonchalantly as John leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, squeezing one of her toys loudly. Sherlock turned his head last minute and meet John’s lips, the two of their faces flushing bright red like teenagers. She threw her toy down immediately, squealing for both of their attention as they pulled away with soft smiles upon their lips. 

“Needy, needy! She’s not taking after me in that aspect.” Sherlock sighed dramatically once more as John quickly rinsed the soap from her hair before pulling her out and wrapping her in a towel. 

“Rosie, do you mind sharing your bed with your father? He obviously doesn’t want to sleep with me with the way he’s talking tonight.” Rosie giggled, despite his sudden deep and straight toned voice, reaching out a wet hand towards Sherlock and his serious facade broke, a smile breaking across his face once more. 

And really, after that first night, it was like the couple had been doing this for years. 

Sherlock had no problem balancing his job and the baby, and John was so very thankful his daughter was calm and collected most of the time. She was so curious, always wanting to know what was going on and Sherlock didn’t mind at all. He’d come home from work on multiple occasions to find the two of them doing experiments in the kitchen, Rosie hanging off of Sherlock’s hip from a safe distance as she watched him work with huge eyes. 

Other days she was perfectly content in his lap, playing with one of her toys and laying against his chest while Sherlock held her up with one hand, the other messing with his microscope as he peered into it, talking to himself as usual. 

When clients came by, Rosie was usually out with Molly or Mrs. Hudson or sometimes asleep, but there were a few occasions where she’d sit out in the living room with them.There was one time in particular that John still remembers vividly. 

A man had come in search of his missing wife, who’d gone to a dinner party with her friends and never returned home. He was panicked and nervous, and John had let him in while Sherlock had gone to get Rosie up from her nap. 

“Please, I don’t know what else to do, the police are no help…” He sat down in the chair, close to tears and John frowned, sitting in his. He was young, probably hadn’t been married for long at all and now his spouse was gone.

“Well, I have faith in my partner. As long as you tell us everything you know, we’ll try our hardest to find her.” The man had nodded, running a shaky hand through his short brown hair before pushing his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose, falling silent. 

Sherlock came back quickly and shut the door behind him, making a beeline for his chair. Rosie was still a bit sleepy looking, her eyes half-lidded as he set her down beside him in his chair. She leaned against the back of the it, waiting as Sherlock pulled out her pacifier from his pocket, popping it in her mouth before turning towards the client. 

“Robert, isn’t it?” Robert blinked for a moment, staring at Rosie in slight confusion before turning his gaze to Sherlock and nodding quickly. 

“Yes, Robert…” he replied, still glancing Rosie from the corner of his eye. John was slightly amused, leaning back against his chair with his notebook as Sherlock closed his eyes and positioned his clasped hands at his chin, nodding his head impatiently towards him. 

“Talk.” he demanded, and Robert nodded again, clearing his throat slightly. 

“Right. Well...Jody had told me she was gonna be late, so I didn’t think much when she hadn’t called me before midnight. She doesn’t go out often, but...her friends insisted…” His voice trailed off and John watched Sherlock’s eyes fly open in annoyance. 

“Why did you stop?” he barked, and Robert flinched a bit, tearing his gaze away from Rosie, who was staring absentmindedly at the ceiling, once more. 

“I...sorry, lost...my train of thought…” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, dropping his clasped hands down into his lap. 

“Have you never seen an infant before in your entire life?” he asked sarcastically, and John stifled a laugh, disguising it as a cough as Robert turned to face him now, looking a bit uneasy. 

“Can I just...can I ask…” He furrowed his brow a bit, gaze darting back towards Sherlock and then at John once again. “Are you two, like...a couple?”  
John blinked rather confusedly at him, tilting his head to the side. 

“Erm...yeah, we are, but I don’t know what that has to do with anything…” Robert’s face had taken on a sort of nasty look, as if he were suddenly disgusted with the room, looking around it and then down at Rosie. 

“Ah, I…didn’t know that.” Sherlock was eyeing him carefully now, keeping his mouth shut but John was suddenly very talkative. 

“Is that an issue with you, Robert?” he spat out icily, and Robert merely ran a hand through his hair. 

“It’s just probably something you should let your clients know beforehand.” John was seething now, setting his notebook and pen down on the coffee table and sitting up straight, opening his mouth before he was interrupted. 

“And you’re raising a child together?” His tone had suddenly become almost judging, as if it were one of the worst things a person could be doing. John grit his teeth, motioning forward to stand but Sherlock was already up from his chair, Rosie being held against his chest with one arm. 

“That will be all, thank you for this lovely waste of my time, Robert.” His voice was short and cold and the man scrambled up suddenly, panic-stricken. 

“No! Please, I don’t...there’s no one else to help!” Sherlock rolled his eyes, shifting Rosie slightly. 

“I would assume not. London isn’t quite keen on helping homophobic bigots with their “missing” wives. I’m sure she just left you because you’re got the mindset of a childish schoolboy and frankly, I don’t blame her.” 

Robert’s mouth fell open, sputtering as he fought to find words. John was smiling softly from his chair, relaxing a bit and watching the scene play out. 

Sherlock shifted Rosie once more to sit on his hip, her head immediately going to rest on his shoulder, watching the stranger in front of her boredly, still sucking on her pacifier. He looked up again, raising an eyebrow. 

“Oh, do close your mouth. I don’t need you taking up any of my precious oxygen from me, my gay partner and his daughter.” John snorted, covering his mouth immediately to stifle it as Sherlock walked to the front door, pushing it open and gesturing for him to leave. “Don’t bother going back to Scotland Yard, either; the Detective Inspector despises homophobes.” He smiled brightly at him, shooing him out before shutting the door in his face as John leapt up from his chair. 

“I love you,” he announced loudly and Sherlock smirked, walking back over. 

“His wife obviously left him. He sits at home all day and complains over the Internet about how the world is falling apart because people of the same sex hold hands in public. I knew it from the start; I just wanted to see what he’d do when I brought Rosie in.” John scoffed, shaking his head as Rosie reached out for him, taking her from Sherlock gently. 

“Unbelievable. Using our daughter to piss off a homophobe.” Sherlock smiled a bit, sitting back down in his chair. 

“Our daughter?” John swayed a bit on his feet, staring at him for a moment. 

“She’s just as much yours as she is mine.” He’d never seen Sherlock blush so deeply in his entire life. 

The day after Rosie turned 11 months old, Mycroft showed up to Baker Street that morning. He hadn’t bothered to call in advance, as far as John knew, and was knocking loudly on their door around 8 am. John groaned and shoved a foot into Sherlock’s side to get him up but he merely grunted in response, wrapping himself tighter in the sheets. 

“‘M too tired,” he muttered in response, his voice thick with sleep and John sighed, rolling onto his back as the knocking got louder. 

“Do we have a client scheduled?” he asked, rubbing his eyes as Sherlock shook his head, his face still buried into the pillows. 

“If it’s Mrs. Hudson, tell her to fuck off in the nicest way possible.” John rolled his eyes, rubbing at his face once more before pulling himself out of bed, sleepily picking his discarded clothes from the night before off the floor and getting dressed before walking out, yawning as the knocking got louder. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming, Jesus Christ…” He opened the door and pulled it back, meeting Mycroft’s slightly angry face on the other side of the doorway. 

“Hello, John,” he stated simply, failing at hiding his annoyance as John blinked in surprise, stepping back. 

“Hi, Mycroft…” He squinted a bit, watching as he came inside and shut the door behind him. Mycroft twirled his walking stick around in his hand a bit as he surveyed the place, taking in all of the new renovations. John walked over slowly, folding his arms across his chest as he did. “What brings you here so early in the morning?” Mycroft rolled his eyes at John’s slight edge of sarcasm, meeting his gaze. 

“I have some business I want my brother to look into. He’s been ignoring my calls and texts, unsurprisingly, so I had no choice but to come down here myself.” John fought back a smirk, instead nodding in agreement. He heard his bedroom door open down the hallway and looked over, seeing Sherlock pop his head out. 

“Who is it, John?” John watched amusedly as he walked down the hallway, wrapped in nothing but a white sheet before he met Mycroft’s gaze, giving him a sly smirk. 

“Mycroft, what a surprise.” He walked towards him, his entire collarbone and half of his chest exposed, refusing to break eye contact. “What brings you around, brother mine?”

Mycroft scoffed loudly, turning his gaze up towards the ceiling with an uncomfortable look that John found hilarious. “Sherlock, for God’s sake, put on some clothes!” Sherlock hummed contentedly, swiping at his older brother with his sheet as he walked past him for his chair. 

“I’m quite fine like this, thank you. Are we going to see the Queen again?” John let out a loud cackle, earning a sour look from Mycroft as Sherlock winked at him from behind his brother, flopping down in his chair. 

“This is serious business, Sherlock.” Sherlock dropped his sheet even lower, his entire chest now exposed in London’s bright morning light streaming from their windows. 

“Everything’s serious business with you, Mycroft.” Mycroft tapped his stick on the floor in annoyance, glaring daggers at his little brother. 

“So it seems.” He scratched at his chin a bit awkwardly for a moment, his expression softening slightly. “Are you...feeling better, Sherlock?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, shooting him a puzzled look. Mycroft remained silent, watching him carefully and John caught Sherlock’s eye, giving him a slight nod, as if reassuring him it was okay to talk.

Sherlock relaxed a bit in his chair, his pale fingers tapping against the leather armrest beside him before clearing his throat and nodding once, looking fixedly at something in the kitchen in front of him. 

“Yes, I’m doing better.” John smiled a bit before he heard the all-too familiar noise of Rosie crying from her room upstairs. 

“Ah, she’s awake. I’ll be right back.” He turned quickly to leave the two brothers to talk, hoping for once they’d actually make some progress. 

Rosie’s eyes were still sleepy as she rolled around in her crib, kicking her legs around once she saw her father come in. She gave him a big smile when John picked her up, blinking her large brown eyes at him as she held onto the front of his pajama shirt. 

John smiled and pressed a kiss to her cheek, walking back towards the door and listening downstairs for a moment. He heard the muffled sound of conversation going on, keeping quiet as he walked Rosie towards the window in the hall. 

“Look at all the clouds this morning, love…” Rosie chewed loudly on her hand, looking out the window happily as John swayed her back and forth, listening to the two brothers talk downstairs. 

John sighed internally a few minutes later when he heard Mycroft exclaim, once more, for Sherlock to “put on some bloody clothes so they could talk business”, and figured it was time to go back down. 

“I didn’t know I was required to wear clothes in my own flat, brother!” John groaned at their bickering, but Rosie found it quite funny, giggling to herself as they got back downstairs. Mycroft was standing by the window and typing something on his phone, not paying any attention as they walked in. John peered into the hallway and saw Sherlock’s white sheet disappear into their bedroom before walking down and into the room. 

“Why is it that you two can’t go 10 minutes without arguing?” He shut the door as Sherlock huffed indignantly, throwing his sheet off his body like a child. 

“It’s not my fault he’s a dickhead!” John narrowed his eyes dangerously and covered Rosie’s ears, but Sherlock waved his hand at him in annoyance, walking around the room completely naked and kicking clothes around. “Where are my pajamas I was wearing last night?!” 

John sighed, shifting Rosie on his hip as he watched the detective begin picking up random shirts off the floor, throwing them over his shoulder as John sat on the bed. 

“They’re in here somewhere. Honestly, why don’t you just put the clothes in the hamper?” Sherlock made a distressed sort of noise, ignoring him and Rosie giggled, squirming around in her father’s lap. 

He finally found all of his clothes, slipping on his underwear, then his pajama pants and a long sleeved shirt, yanking up the sleeves to his elbows. John smiled a bit, watching him shake his hair out, his curls bouncing around briefly before turning to face them. 

“I don’t need a hamper.” Rosie called out loudly for him, making a strange sort of baby shriek and holding her arms out before Sherlock bent over and picked her up. John hummed a bit, watching him press a cheek to her kiss. 

“What’s Mycroft want?” Sherlock shrugged, placing Rosie on his hip. 

“No idea. But it can wait. I have a better and far more entertaining idea in mind.” John raised an eyebrow, looking confused as Sherlock turned his head down towards Rosie. “Want to meet my stupid brother?” John huffed at him, Sherlock smiling brightly as he turned towards the door.

“He’s not stupid!” Sherlock rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

“Whatever you say, John. Now listen, I’m going to go in there and talk to him for a couple minutes, and you’ll stay back here and call me in. Then I’ll ask him to hold Rosie and pass her over and he’ll have no choice but to take her while I run back here. Then we can watch him suffer from the safety of the hallway.” 

John stared at him for a moment, crossing his arms across his chest, squinting his eyes slightly. 

“You just love to torture your brother, don’t you?” He failed to keep the amusement out of his voice and Sherlock grinned, taking it as an agreement and opening the door. 

“Rosie just wants to meet him!” he whispered playfully before disappearing down the hall. 

John peered around the corner, watching Sherlock walk over to his brother once more. Mycroft eyed Rosie warily, still a bit unused to seeing his ex-junkie of a brother with a baby on his hip, but they began to talk nevertheless. John was stifling giggles as Sherlock played up his maternal role dramatically; he kept bouncing Rosie on his hip and swayed her back and forth, still nodding along intently with whatever Mycroft was saying.

A couple minutes later John stepped back into the room before calling out. “Sherlock! Come here, I need your help!” 

He grinned, listening as Sherlock called back. “Be right there, John!” He heard a slight exchange of words before Sherlock’s heavy footsteps came down the hall, rushing into the room before he started laughing. 

“He looks like an idiot!” John leaned back over and peered around the corner of the doorway, feeling Sherlock follow suit behind him. 

Mycroft was standing in the middle of their living room, his hands beneath Rosie’s armpits, awkwardly holding her with his arms extended out. Sherlock was quite literally giggling into John’s hair, watching as Mycroft looked around uncomfortably before deciding to sit down in the client’s chair, setting Rosie down gently in his lap. Rosie was unfazed, instead studying this new man with large eyes, still drooling all over herself and her hand. 

John snorted, shaking his head. “You’re right, he’s completely lost.” Sherlock giggled yet again, watching his brother squirm some more before John pulled him back, stepping back into the room. “Stop torturing Mycroft and go help him.”

Sherlock pouted slightly, a stray curl falling into his eye as John smirked. “He really needs your help, if he came all the way over here to personally ask…” Sherlock merely hummed absentmindedly in response, looking down on the floor and gasping in happy surprise as he picked up his dark blue robe. 

“There it is!” John wrinkled his nose fondly, watching his boyfriend slide it on quickly, wrapping and tying it around his waist.

“Don’t change the subject. Come on, this is exactly what you need, a nice big case...we haven’t had one in months.” And it was true; the last big action they’d seen was the Culverton case, and of course the mess at Sherrinford that occurred after. It was a big step, in John’s opinion, but Sherlock seemed ready enough. He was tired of the excessive experiments in the kitchen, anyway. 

Sherlock seemed to agree, reaching out and running his hand down from John’s shoulder to his fingers, sliding his own in between his for a brief moment before nodding. 

“You’re right, we haven’t. The game is on, once again.” He winked and John laughed, shaking his head before Sherlock pressed a kiss to the top of his head before leaving the room once more. 

Once Sherlock finally rescued Mycroft from his baby misery, the three of them sat down in their usual spots, Rosie sitting in Sherlock’s lap and chewing on a teething biscuit. 

There was an odd bit of silence for a moment, all of them seeming to realize that the last time they’d been sat like this had been when Eurus’ bomb had shown up. Mycroft cleared his throat and broke the uneasiness after a moment, going straight into conversation. 

One of the British Parliament members had gotten himself involved in a scandal; he didn’t go into much detail but from his tone it had been pretty bad. It had been kept a secret in order to give him and his family time to flee before being released to the press (a perk of working for the government, he supposed), but last night his three kids had been kidnapped; a 12 year old son and two daughters, 8 and 4. Sherlock was visibly distressed as his brother spoke, holding a bit tighter onto Rosie as his brother explained the details and John stayed mute. 

“As you can imagine, time is of the essence. I’ve given you all of the information I have.” John hummed in response, fidgeting with his pen in his hand as Sherlock nodded once, stroking Rosie’s hair with his hand absentmindedly. 

“Yes…” He looked down at the baby in his lap for a moment, looking disconcerted. Mycroft gave him an odd look, leaning forward a bit. 

“Will you help, Sherlock?” Sherlock lifted his head up immediately, furrowing his brow slightly and frowning. 

“Of course, Mycroft. I’m not a monster; I have a heart.” John eyed the two of them for a moment, watching Mycroft’s expression go from surprise to a weary smile. 

“I’m well aware, brother mine.” 

The case ended up taking way longer than he and John both expected; the kidnapper was smart, dodging their every move and Sherlock grew more and more frustrated as each day passed, not wanting to push him to flee the country altogether. John figured he was just messing with their heads for enjoyment, predicting a majority of their moves and staying in London for the thrill of it.

After a week and a half of relentless search and Scotland Yard scavenging the city, Sherlock resorted to his mind palace for the first time in months. John came home from picking up Rosie one night to find him sitting cross-legged in his chair, his eyes closed and his clasped hands resting against his chin, completely silent. 

John knew better than to disturb him, and when he put Rosie down and got ready for bed that night a few hours later, Sherlock was still in the same spot. He tugged a large blanket from their closet into the room, glancing around sadly at all of the pictures and papers and maps littering their floor and tacked up on the walls, his heart aching for the poor kids. He knew Sherlock felt the same way; he’d taken on this panicked sense of urgency with the case, getting more frustrated than usual when their clues left them a dead end. 

John walked over quietly, wrapping the blanket around the worn out and weary looking detective’s shoulders and back. Sherlock remained motionless, as still as a statue as John carefully tucked the blanket into his lap, covering up his legs and feet. He sighed softly, scanning his expressionless face for a moment. 

“Love you, Sherlock,” he murmured, pressing a kiss on top of his curls before turning around and walking to his bedroom, closing the door and curling up in bed for the night. 

A few hours later, he was stirred from his sleep as he felt Sherlock climb into bed beside him, smiling sleepily to himself as his long arms wrapped their way around John’s waist, his face going to rest in the nape of his neck before falling back asleep once more. 

It didn’t happen for another 9 days, but the duo finally caught the kidnapper in Trafalgar Square, of all places. Lestrade had received a call from a woman early in the morning voicing her concern for a man and his three “children”, who’d looked visibly scared while travelling with him. Sherlock and John quite literally ambushed him in the middle of the public square, John grabbing the kids while Sherlock pinned the kidnapper against the wall of a building nearby. Fortunately for him, the man wasn’t much of a fighter, instead hurling loud insults in Sherlock’s face that got John’s blood boiling but didn’t seem to affect the detective in the slightest. 

“Oh please, do shut up. You’re testing my patience and I really don’t feel like breaking your nose today.” He turned and eyed John for a moment, glancing at the children briefly before turning back to face him. “Although if any of those kids are hurt, I will be sure to break an arm or two as well.”

And after that, he didn’t speak until the police showed up. 

Thankfully, the kids were fine physically, just shaken up and scared. John kept them close until the police arrived, reassuring them that everything was fine now and that their parents were on their way to get them. 

Lestrade thanked them over and over again for the hard work, something he hadn’t done as often beforehand. “It’s been awhile, and I just...I’m glad to have you two back.” John grinned and Sherlock gave a tired looking smile, nodding once. 

“It’s good to be back, Greg.” 

They ventured their way back to Baker Street afterwards, where a small crowd of cameras and people were gathered by the door, all yelling questions at them as they got out of their cab. 

“Mr. Holmes! Are you finally back for good?”

“Dr. Watson, it’s been awhile! Is your blog going to make a comeback?”

“Where’s the hat?!” 

John could feel Sherlock stiffen up nervously behind him as they stood on the sidewalk, and John immediately grabbed for his hand, squeezing it tightly before leading them through the crowd and to the front door. He quickly unlocked and pushed it open, the sound of the cameras going off speeding up rapidly and the shouting getting louder.

“Are they holding hands?!”

“Rumors are going to start!”

“Are you making a statement?!” 

John smiled to himself, leading Sherlock inside before shutting the door in their faces. He suddenly couldn’t wait to see the papers tomorrow.

Mrs. Hudson had taken Rosie out and about for the day, so the couple had the rest of it to themselves. Sherlock was visibly exhausted, the lack of sleep from the past 3 weeks seeming to catch up with him at once. John urged him to take a nap but he insisted on getting a bath, and the two of them ended up sitting in the warm water for nearly 2 hours together. 

John leaned against the back of the porcelain tub, watching with a fond smile on his face at Sherlock at the other end, his elbow resting on the edge with his head resting against hand, his eyes closed and a calm, tranquil expression on his face. He let him sleep or relax or do whatever it was he was doing for awhile, until his leg started falling asleep and he shifted it slightly beneath Sherlock’s own.

“Mmm…” John watched him yawn, giving him a sheepish smile as he slowly blinked open his blue eyes, lifting his head back up. 

“Sorry…” he murmured, and Sherlock gave him a sleepy but cheeky grin, rubbing his eyes. 

“‘S okay, we’re pruning up anyway. Should probably get out.” John watched him quietly, Sherlock sitting up a bit, the bubbles in the water nearly all gone now. 

“You need to sleep, Sherlock...that case took a lot out of you…” Sherlock hummed in response, bringing his knees up slightly before leaning over and resting his forehead against them, closing his eyes. John reached over and gently ran his fingers through his hair, fingernails scratching his scalp gently and he heard Sherlock sigh in content, his arched back rising and falling slowly. 

“I’ll sleep after I see Rosie…” he mumbled into his skin, and John smiled at that, dropping his hand from his curls. 

“She sees you every day…” Sherlock stayed bent over for a moment more before sitting up slowly, rolling his shoulders and neck around slowly before meeting his eyes and shrugging. 

“I still need to tell her goodnight.” He sounded almost insulted, as if it were appalling to think that he could actually go without giving his daughter a kiss goodnight. John laughed softly, reaching over and sliding a wet hand around his boyfriend’s neck and pulled him close, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips before pulling away slightly. 

“You’re absolutely right, love.” Sherlock grinned and closed the gap in between them once more, his eyes fluttering shut as his mouth met John’s. 

The next week was Rosie’s first birthday. 

It was a lot for John to process, at least emotionally. He thought about where he’d been a year ago, who he’d been with and the memory of Mary was still fresh enough to hurt him. He saw more of her in Rosie every single day, and he vaguely wondered what they would be doing to celebrate if she was still alive today. 

But then...there was Sherlock. 

Every time he looked at Sherlock he knew that this was exactly where he needed to be. 

This was who needed to help him raise his daughter, this was who he needed to live with. Sherlock had taken on his parenting role automatically, had devoted his entire life to Rosie without blinking an eye. He never complained, he never refused to help even though John half expected it at times with his childish attitude. No, Sherlock was everything he’d ever wanted in a partner; and somehow, he’d seemed to know this since they first met all those years ago. 

Rosie was enjoying all of her attention later on that afternoon, happily smashing her little hands into her cake and giggling loudly as Molly and Mrs. Hudson took pictures. Greg was there as well, and somehow Sherlock had gotten Mycroft to show up, although he didn’t seem too pleased about it. 

“John, Sherlock! Get a picture with Rosie!” Her high chair was sitting in front of the fireplace in full view for everyone, and John smiled and nodded, going to her left side. Sherlock followed suit and went to her right, where Rosie began impatiently reaching up for him. 

“Papa! Papa!” Sherlock sighed dramatically, getting a giggle out of her before scooping her up. 

“So Dada doesn’t get to hold you while you’re half covered in frosting?” John grinned and walked to his side, snaking an arm around his waist. 

“She likes you better today.” Sherlock stuck his tongue out at him and Rosie took his opportunity to reach up and grab his mouth, smothering it in thick vanilla frosting. John burst into laughter, covering his mouth and watching with wide eyes as she giggled loudly, rubbing her hands all over his face and Molly quickly snapped a picture. 

It’s still one of John’s favorites, and he keeps a copy in his wallet to this day.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! as always, leave kudos/comments if you liked it, and i really appreciate feedback of any kind! i hope you enjoyed and if not, feel free to tell me why. 
> 
> all the love as always. x


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